


Damsel in Distress

by EmeraldWaters



Series: Speedy and Arrowguy [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AIM strikes again, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes makes a brief appearance, But they still suck, But they're getting there I promise, Civil War doesn't happen, Clint doesn't cope without coffee, Clint is NOT a damsel, Cooper Barton - Freeform, Deaf Clint Barton, Laura Barton - Freeform, Lila Barton - Freeform, M/M, Past Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Pre-Relationship, gratuitous use of the word 'fuck'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaters/pseuds/EmeraldWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pietro Maximoff is alive and God damn, Clint is never going to live this down</p><p>OR</p><p>(The second part of the AU nobody asked for where Laura and Clint separated mutually as of a few years ago, Clint is in his late twenties and Pietro’s actually alive).</p><p>*Ignores the hell out of Civil War*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damsel in Distress

**Author's Note:**

> I'M BACK! Not even a month later, I guess I am really trying to impress you guys!
> 
> Well here is the second part of Speedy and Arrowguy series, quite a bit longer than usual. I hope you enjoy - please comment, I love hearing what you guys think!
> 
> P.S. This IS set after Age of Ultron but I totally forgot that the tower got destroyed, so they still live there.
> 
> DISCLAIMER:I do not own any of these characters, they all belong to Marvel. I will not make any money from this.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint rises with the sun; a habit borne from years in the circus and years of farming.

 

Groggy, a tad disorientated and resigned to the fact he won’t feel any better, Clint heads to the kitchen. The coffee maker is still broken. It's been a _week_. Other than grunting at the others as he enters, Clint doesn't offer anything in the way of conversation as he sits at the bench, beginning to battle his way through a bowl of cereal. The team knows by now, that without coffee, he’s not coherent until around 12 – or generally nice to be around.

 

Gaze set intently on his Froot Loops, he tenses when red hair appears in his peripheral and subtly shifts his arm to hold his bowl, but otherwise makes no other move. Instead of jabbing him with a spoon as he expected, Natasha sets a store-bought cup in front of him. It’s probably sad about how much he lights up – though he makes a note to check for tampering.

 

“You’re the best,” he declares, squeezing her shoulder, letting go quickly when she raises an eyebrow. 

 

He gets a mouthful – a _single, beautiful_ mouthful – before the cup is snatched right out of his hands, and Clint gets a glimpse of a triumphant face before Pietro’s gone again. Clint's mind takes a minute to put the pieces together. When it does, he lets out a cry so loud that Sam almost flips his pancakes right out of the pan.

 

Gritting his teeth, he begins to stand, but barely makes it off the stool before nearly getting wiped out by a paper ball to the head.

 

“No murder in the tower,” Steve remarks, with extraordinary disinterest for someone who almost just killed someone with a paper projectile. Clint spins around to stare at the man, because _really_.His and Tony's arguments can often be heard across _floors._

 

Besides, everybody (including Clint now too) knows without saying that Cap destroyed the maker; even if the bastard is too shifty to get caught. _America’s Sweetheart, my ass_. He may have killer baby blues and a kind heart to accompany the bulging muscles, but the guy swears like a sailor and can be just as petty as the rest of them. If not more.

 

Clint flops on the couch instead, whining under his breath about coffee and upstart kids and evil Popsicles. He supposes stealing the coffee is Pietro’s revenge for dying his reinforced runners purple. Clint had realized too late that Steve was the one who had broken the maker, and the press had had a field day when Quicksilver showed up wearing Hawkeye’s colour. To make matters worse, it had been all the media had talked about for at least a week. And yes, Clint does realize how ~~ridiculous~~ melodramatic he'd been, but c’mon, he's allowed his flaws.

 

An hour passes, and it’s soon made clear that nobody is gonna help him out _(bastards the lot of them)_ so Clint reluctantly heaves himself upwards, and prepares himself for a trip to Starbucks.  

 

Cursed with relative normality and as one of the less popular Avengers, he can get away with a baseball cap, hoodie and sunglasses. ~~Not like Steve thinks he can but actually.  
~~

 

* * *

 

Usually, it’s a five-minute walk to the nearest Starbucks, but because he requires coffee to even function like a normal human being, it takes him at least fifteen. The street is oddly silent.

 

Clint’s about fifty metres away when a shiver runs down his spine and he doesn't have to look to know he’s being followed. _Fuck_. He doesn't have his bow ~~because normal people don’t usually get fucking accosted when going to buy coffee~~ but thank god he's at least got his knife.

 

He drops to one knee, pretending to tie his laces. Subtly pulling the knife out, Clint turns and rises in time to deflect a blade to the neck. He trades a few blows with the AIM goon before throwing him into a wall, subsequently knocking him out.

 

Five more appear from random alleyways to rush him.

 

It’s tiring, their incompetence makes them unpredictable and one manages to get him across the face, hard - he feels the skin of his lip tear - before Clint can dispatch him. The fight doesn’t last much longer than that.

 

Knocking the last goon out with a rather vicious knee-to-groin-then-hand-to-temple combo, Clint glimpses the sniper across the street too late, feeling the sting of something hitting his arm. He presses the emergency button on his comm and manages to pull the tranq dart out of his arm quickly, but not quickly enough to stop the rush of the drug through his body.

 

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Clint a minute to gather his bearings because everything looks odd, and it takes him another embarrassingly long minute to figure out it’s because he’s upside down.

 

Suspended from the roof, the rope is looped and tied around his left ankle, which in turn, is painfully bearing all of his weight. All the blood has rushed to his head. There must be a draught because he’s spinning in place and it's making him dizzy and oh, he kind of feels like vomiting.

 

To distract himself, Clint scans the room.

 

Like last time the room is again pretty standard. Bare, everything is made of concrete and a catwalk runs the perimeter so he assumes a warehouse of some sort. He’s pretty high up in the air. There's also something in the far left corner…   _Wait, is that_ \-  

 

"- for fuck's sake," Clint says out loud.

It's the same fucking hideous pot plant from last time, sitting happily in the corner. Even bigger than before, the leaves curl towards him almost mockingly, and Clint kind of wants to blow it up. _Seriously though, who did he piss off in his past life?_

 

And wow, Clint must be pretty affected by the blood rush because it takes a moment to realize that he didn’t hear himself speak – in fact he can’t hear anything. His hand fumbles around his ear and his comms are gone, but he did manage to press the emergency so he’s not too worried.

 

That’s a lie; his head is really starting to hurt. Clint’s flexible sure, but even folding himself in half in the air, he’s unable to reach the knots on his ankle. For the next ten minutes, at two minute intervals, he tries anyway.

 

It hurts to do, but the relief on his brain is immense. On the fourth try, his movement causes him to spin more in place and Clint realizes that the catwalk is much closer to him on the right. In fact, if he swings, he could probably reach it. _Probably._

 

Letting his muscles relax, Clint drops back down. He’s just about to try again when the air swirls viciously around him, sending him swinging.

 

He groans, because everyone knows what that means.

 

* * *

 

 

Pietro appears first as a flicker at the opposite end of the room, then second as a scowling face on the catwalk that sways back and forth in front of Clint's eyes. Disapproving stares seem to be a common theme. Displaced by his minute movements, the air almost vibrates in a mimic of his anger.

 

The crease between Pietro's eyebrows furrows deepens at Clint’s lack of smart-ass comment.

 

 _Wait here_ the kid signs, obviously having had noticed the lack of hearing aids. Without even another gesture, he's gone, the sharp burst of air again sending Clint swinging. _Well that didn’t last long._

 

Using that momentum, Clint clenches his muscles and moves his arms through the air to keep him moving. On the sixth swing, he manages to get a hand around one of the rails lining the catwalk, causing the rope to jerk his arm painfully as it tries to pull his whole body weight back. Shifting his hand for a better grip, Clint uses his considerable strength to pull himself into a more stable position. It’s not ideal, but he’s dexterous (and impatient) and manages to untie himself easily enough.

  
Then he fucks up. Thinking he’s sorted, Clint lets go of the rail but somehow the rope is still looped around his leg and his body is an anvil, pulling him off the edge, palms failing to find purchase. Disoriented and panicked, Clint falls three metres onto his ankle.

 

He blacks out.

 

* * *

 

 

Vibrations running across the floor cause Clint to snap his eyes open. Black spots dance in his vision and it takes a while to blink them away; it occurs to him he doesn’t know how much time has passed. Belatedly, he also realizes his throat feels raw, if he’s been screaming. Seeing the angle that his ankle is sticking out at, Clint supposes he has. It also makes him want to gag; if he wasn’t in so much pain he probably would.

 

Pietro’s face is white as he chucks Clint two new comms. They sting his palm.

 

“Clint?” Pietro asks softly, once he has put them in.

 

“One and only,” he replies, when he feels like the pain won’t fill his voice but he winces when the split across his lip stretches.

 

Pietro’s suddenly kneeling in front of him, hair rustled by the breeze. His hand reaches out to touch Clint’s bruised cheek and there's a look in his eyes and _nope._ It's too early for this shit.

 

"You didn't come alone again did you?" Clint asks desperately, regretting his choice of words as soon as the slow, predatory smirk spreads across Pietro’s face, but thank God his only response is to retract his hand and say “no, Stark and The Widow are securing perimeter.”

 

Clint looks at him doubtfully.

 

"Roadrunner isn’t lying Katniss, he didn't come alone," Tony says, the sudden voice startling. “Now hurry up, you’ve got men coming your way already.”

 

Pietro offers a hand up and Clint may be stubborn and proud, but he’s not stupid, and therefore knows there’s no way in hell he can get up by himself. Now upright, Clint goes to put weight on the already swollen purple of his ankle before he admits to himself he can't. Reluctantly, he leans against Pietro. His brain panics at the proximity – _bad move bad move, abort mission._

 

"I should be - ah fuck, fine," he says calmly, a second later, setting his ankle on the floor as if to take a step, pain shooting up his ankle at the motion.

 

"No,” Pietro says sharply, no-nonsense.

 

And Clint has a sudden terrifying _knowledge_ of exactly what Pietro’s about to do.

 

"Don't you dare,” Clint warns, trying to back away but the kid has an arm like a steel trap and he is stuck where he is, still pressed against the distractingly firm body.

 

Pietro grins bright and sharp and mischievous and then Clint’s being swept up into his arms. _Bridal style._

 

"Hold on," The Speedster smirks, gripping Clint’s thigh with a disconcertingly warm hand, and _runs._

 

With the force of the wind, Clint’s head is pressed to Pietro's fucking neck and despite the risk of having his organs melted or something, he wishes they were going full speed. Because Pietro is going slow enough that Clint can see everything, can _feel_ Pietro’s muscles shifting in his chest. (He can also feel every movement of his ankle despite trying to ignore it, an insistent burning that has him grimacing)

 

A pain that only gets worse when a band of AIM goons run around the corner, Pietro darting behind a container to ease Clint onto a pallet. Despite the care behind the action, pain shoots up his leg, white-hot, and he has to bite his knuckle to muffle his groan.

 

Not even five minutes later, Pietro’s back, sliding his hand under Clint. He acquiesces grudgingly, slipping his arm around the younger man’s shoulder as he’s pulled back into Pietro’s arms. All the AIM goons are spread across the room, unconscious, in varying uncomfortable positions.

 

Unable to get over the indignity of it, Clint pouts. As they wind down the steep path, he looks over his shoulder and for fuck’s sake they were even keeping him in a bloody castle. Clint _is not_ a damsel goddamit!

 

 _Please don't let Tony see Please don't let Tony see_ becomes his mantra as the kid approaches the Quinjet. It took months for the man to drop the ‘Language’ thing, and Clint can only imagine how long this would last. Clint would never ever live it down. He has a vision of him in his 80’s, withered and gray, Tony sitting in an adjacent rocking chair, wheezing on about damsels in distress. He shudders.

 

Iron Man, thankfully, is nowhere in sight. Clint can make out Tasha a couple hundred metres away, cutting her way through a legion of AIM goons, a shallow cut running horizontally along her forehead. Without stopping, Pietro shifts, quick hands moving Clint over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. A bolt of arousal runs down his spine at the show of strength.

 

Pietro drops him carefully on one of the Quinjet’s seats and runs off to fight, leaving him alone to gnaw on his thumb nail in worry. Tasha appears later with a tiny smirk on her face and Clint’s glad the fight’s over, but he knows she definitely saw all of it. She won't be forgetting about that anytime soon.

 

Rats.

 

* * *

 

"I don't know whether to be glad or offended about how easy that was," Clint remarks to her later on, foot propped up on the console. It’s just the two of them, Pietro ran and Tony flew off for a Stark Industries conference (yes they actually still let him go to those).

 

Bandaged up, his ankle is feeling a little more supported, although Nat didn’t try to set it. The Avengers may have all done Comprehensive First Aid (in which the frazzled instructor had to stop Thor zapping the ‘victims’ with lightning) and Nat has patched him up during missions before, neither of them want to risk more damage when they don’t have to.

 

Tasha doesn’t answer straight away, as if she’s rolling the words around her mouth, handing him a lukewarm takeaway cup filled with coffee (Clint has stopped trying to figure out where she pulls stuff from).

 

“You’re a goddess.”

 

That at least makes the corner of her lips tilt upwards. It doesn’t take long to fade.

 

“That _was_ too easy,” Nat murmurs, agreeing with his earlier words and voicing Clint’s very fear.

 

“I know, but why would they take me just to let me go?”

 

* * *

 

And the brief comfort that Tony did not see is fleeting, because when they get back, Pietro appears from nowhere, picks him up again and refuses to let him down, carrying him to medical himself. And again Clint fights, he really does, but even a hand to the face nor his frantic wiggling doesn't dislodge the arm holding him.

 

There’s no way FRIDAY could’ve missed that.

 

True to his personality, Tony is grinning as he walks in, halfway through Helen's check-up. After peering over Helen's shoulder for about ten minutes, the man sits on one of the cabinets, pulling out an apple. He taps a scalpel against his chin thoughtfully.

 

"Don't you say it. Stark, I swear, if the word damsel even comes out of your mouth..."

 

"Oh don't you worry Merida, my mouth is sealed," Tony replies, and with a wink he hops down and walks out.

 

He is so fucked.

 

"Clint, do I have to remind you again to stop moving?" Helen's soft voice asks, almost with a hint of mirth, and Clint stops his frantic attempt to chase Tony down.

 

_So fucked._

 

* * *

 

 

About an hour later, he's out of the room, ankle set in purple plaster and with a stern warning that he is not to do any 'Avengering' for _at least_ two weeks. Helen and her machine may be amazing, and he may heal faster than most people, but broken bones still require rest. Muttering foul words under his breath, Clint crutches along as quick as he can. He hates the damn things and he hates not being able to do anything. Not for the first time he curses his all-to-mortal body.

 

“Come on Old Man, now you are even as slow as one,” Pietro says coming up beside him and Clint just sighs. Aw, silence.

 

Swinging his head to check for any malfeasance, Clint is pleasantly surprised to find the kid empty-handed, looking straight ahead, humming under his breath.

 

The effort it takes Pietro to walk at this pace is obvious in the minute movements of his body. Even when still, something’s moving or twitching. As someone who has to (and is used to) staying still for long periods of time, Clint doesn’t know how he deals with it.

 

They walk till the end of the corridor in silence and it’s a nice moment until Pietro opens his mouth again; “I wonder if Stark could build you a walking frame?”

 

Clint wants to kick him, but settles for sticking the crutch out, which trips Pietro over. Vibrations in the air increase as the kid rights himself, but the anger is short-lived. It’s not surprising when Pietro disappears in a blink, but the gentle tug on his shirt is.

 

Not hungry, Clint forgoes dinner and collapses onto his bed, falling asleep on top of his covers fully-clothed.

 

* * *

 

 

An itchy ankle wakes Clint earlier than usual and he heads out to the kitchen because there is no way he’ll get back to sleep now.

 

He eats his cereal in the dark, ignoring the red digital clock flashing 5:14am at him, and reading all the personalized magnets and sticky notes on the fridge. Across the bench lay his crutches, purely because there’s no one there to tell him off for it.

 

After dumping his bowl and mug in the washer, Clint heads back to his room. It’s more like a loft really – near the top of the tower and spacious, with a high ceiling. The beams are exposed and there’s also easy access to the vents (though he’s not sure if that was intentional or not). His massive bed (purple covers obviously) is shoved into the corner to make room for the mini shooting range and his instruments. Tony is many things, but frugal is not one of them.

 

Clint flops on his bed, propping his foot up, and spends far too long playing Angry Birds. From his window, he can see dawn breaking across the sky as the sun wakes slowly, pink gradually mixing with yellow until nothing's left but a soft blue. New York wakes quickly, the sound of people talking quietly turning into car horns and sirens and slamming doors until it’s a cacophony even Clint can hear with his aids on low volume.

 

By the time he gets into the shower, it’s 6:15. He stands in the shower, thinking, for a much longer time than usual, just letting the water run rivulets down his body. His shampoo feels weird. Clint just chalks it up to every unfortunate moment of his life. Because it’s an off-day, he chucks on a singlet, a flannel and sweatpants (the pants go on over his cast easily thank god).

 

He sets his new Stark Industries laptop on his desk, sweeping some arrow-making things away to make room. A few months ago he’d sat down with his old Dell to watch Dog Cops (the tower’s Wi-Fi was ridiculously fast). Tony had walked in with a horrified gasp, took the laptop out of his hands, walked out of the room and returned a few hours later with the new one. It’s purple with a black arrow and Clint loves it.

 

Flicking open the lid, he hums under his breath as he waits for it to turn on. Thank God for no-trace.

 

“Hi!” Lila and Coop greet in unison as they pop up, launching into a jumbled conversation about the past few weeks and Clint’s shoulders – which he didn’t even realize were so tense – relax. He loves his kids so much. He wishes his job allowed him to see them more, though he is happy he can spend time with them at all.

 

“Look Dad!” Lila says, cutting off her brother and opening her mouth to point out a missing tooth.

 

“Big deal,” Cooper shrugs, in that condescending way that only older siblings can master, and Clint sends him a warning look.

 

He tells them about how he’s been – making sure to leave out his captures and edit out some of the more violent parts – and shows them his cast. As expected they ask after Auntie Nat and Auntie Wanda.

 

“Uncle Pietro Skyped us yesterday,” Lila tells him and Clint isn’t prepared for the warm rush of affection.

 

During his stay at the farm, Pietro got close with Laura and his children, but especially Lila. Clint would often walk in to find a brown head pressed to white, the two sitting together as they played with her dolls or miniature bow (much to Laura’s displeasure). As Pietro got better and the haunted look faded from his eyes, he even began teasing Clint in the way he used to. He’s never seen the kid more relaxed as he was when he was at the farm.

 

“Did he?” Clint asks in what he hopes is a neutral way.

 

Coop nods. Both his kids look at him then each other and start giggling. Clint is bewildered at the sudden change.

 

“What?”

 

“Hi Clint,” Laura greets, interrupting, eyes warm as she shoos the children away to sit with Nathaniel.

 

They sit for a while talking and Clint is so glad they stayed so close, I mean he hasn’t spoken to Bobbi for years, and they weren’t even married. He’s so glad to see her happy, he knows the months he was gone for were hard on her. He’s just so glad they both came to the realization that although they loved each other, they just weren’t _in love_ anymore. Clint is happy to see a blush tinge her cheeks when he teases her about “Mr Newman,” Cooper’s cute new teacher.

 

“I might be able to visit soon because of my ankle,” he says as they’re saying their goodbyes.

 

“That sounds lovely,” Laura replies, hiding a smile behind her hand.

 

Clint wonders what the hell she was laughing at. Not for very long though, because Friday alerts him that most of the other Avengers are now up. He heads back to the communal kitchen around 7:30, flipping Pietro the finger when he runs past snapping a photo of him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam sits at the bench, with a recently defrosted Bucky Barnes, eating what he’s pretty sure is Steve’s Chinese. Clint’s not quite sure when the man first got back as he is only occasionally around, but he assumes it was during his time at the farm. From what Clint's heard, Barnes’ arrival is quite a long story that includes Wanda having a dig around his head, and a fight with the new King of Wakanda, which was _apparently_ all a misunderstanding. Must’ve been one hell of a misunderstanding.

 

Clint makes himself another coffee, thanking whoever bought the maker as the bitter liquid hits his throat.

 

"How’s the ankle?" Tony asks, without looking up from whatever he’s fiddling with on his phone.

 

"Broken," he replies.

 

Tony looks up then – supposedly to roll his eyes – but something stops him short and he just stares. With the recent events Clint wouldn't be surprised if wings had just sprouted from his shoulder blades.

 

"What?" he asks, now a little irritable because Tony has not so much as blinked in the thirty seconds he's been staring at him.

 

Sam watches them back and forth like a tennis match, while Cyro-freeze ignores them, shovelling noodles into his mouth at an impressive speed.

 

“What’s going on?” He hears Barnes ask Sam gruffly a second later, not bothering to lift his head further than the plate.

 

_Not ignoring then._

 

“I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Barton’s dye job.”

 

His stomach drops. _His family looking like they were going to laugh. Tony staring at him. Pietro taking a photo. Instagram…_

 

Clint practically runs to the nearest mirror. Sure enough, his hair is white. _White._

 

He is going to kill that little bastard.

 

 


End file.
